


Ambush

by pocky_slash



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-25
Updated: 2006-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24246757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: Will breaks the news about Leo to Sam.
Relationships: Will Bailey/Sam Seaborn
Kudos: 4





	Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](https://divisionvixen.livejournal.com/profile)[divisionvixen](https://divisionvixen.livejournal.com/), [](https://moonsheen.livejournal.com/profile)[moonsheen](https://moonsheen.livejournal.com/), and [](https://quackerscooper.livejournal.com/profile)[quackerscooper](https://quackerscooper.livejournal.com/) for reading, poking, making suggestions, and catching the fact that I made the same typo three times.
> 
> Note from 2020: This was originally written after John Spencer's death but before it was addressed in the show.

_"All your life you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye, and when something nudges it into outline it is like being ambushed by a grotesque."  
\--Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_

"I shouldn't be the one to tell you this," Will says. Sam has to blink the sleep out of his eyes to focus on him. Will Bailey, Communications Director for the White House is standing on his stoop. It's freezing. He didn't expect it to get so cold so fast this year, but it's election night, it's barely November, and already Will's breath is hanging in the air in opaque puffs. Will's breathing hard, harder than he should be breathing, harder than is logical. Sam wonders, distantly, if he ran all the way from the White House. He looks past Will, past the stoop and into the street where a cab is still idling, the exhaust creeping into the air like a stream of smoke. Like a funeral pyre.

He's not sure why that image came to him so suddenly, but the look on Will's face, the intensity in his eyes is hinting that he might not be that far off base.

"It should be Josh or CJ or... I shouldn't be the one to tell you," Will says again. He sounds desperate and Sam can't imagine what he's talking about. It's too early for election results to be in, and since when would they concern him? Sam hasn't worked on a campaign since his own failure in the California 47th. He came back to DC, yes, but he couldn't bring himself to go back to the White House, not after losing so spectacularly. He's been a lawyer for the DNC for the past three and a half years. He's been preparing for another race of his own. He's been comforted by the fact that everything fell apart right after he left, anyway. It wouldn't have been the same. It won't ever be the same again.

"What's going on?" he finally manages to say, snapping out of his stupor. But it's like they're playing some schoolyard game, because as soon as he speaks, Will seems to lose his voice. He stares at Sam with his mouth open. He looks older, more professional. He looks completely different from the harried man that Sam met in a mattress factory in Laguna Beach. He's polished, but at the same time, he's missing the spark that drew Sam to him in the first place. The aura of idealism is gone, and something deep within Sam aches for it.

"Will," he says.

"Leo," Will says. It's more of an exhale, really, a breath. A whisper that disappears into the night as soon as the small puff of Will's breath dissipates. He says nothing more, but Sam knows. The look in Will's eyes, the desperation, the way his fingers and clenching and unclenching... Sam knows.

"Is he...?" That doesn't mean he's given up hope.

"Heart-attack," Will whispers. "It wasn't... it was instant."

The world suddenly, violently rushes past him, or at least that's what Sam assumes is happening. It's the only thing that can account for the rushing noise in his ears, the way he suddenly feels sick. He's afraid to open his eyes and he stumbles backwards, off the stoop and into his apartment. The walls and the linoleum are almost as cold as the air outside and if it wasn't for Will's warm hands on his forearms - suddenly, immediately, just in time - he would have collapsed onto the ground.

"Leo," he breathes.

He hears Will shut the door.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes that he is on the floor. He's leaning, haphazardly, against the wall. Will is kneeling over him. Will's tie is the same color as the floor. Light Champagne. That's what the salesman had called it. Easy to clean up, hides dirt, good for people who don't have time to mop.

"Sam," Will says. "Sam. Sam." He looks up, eyes sliding into place with Will's. There's that desperation and just a hint of hysteria in the way that Will is repeating his name. He wonders, absently, if Will and Leo became close in the years since Sam left. He wonders if Will ever experienced that giddy, soaring feeling that came from hearing Leo say, " _Good job, kid. This is excellent._ " He wonders what part of Leo Will is going to miss most. He wonders if Will can taste his grief like this, slick in the back of his throat.

"Leo," he says again. Will is still holding onto his forearms.

"I wanted Josh to tell you," he says desperately. "Or CJ. I wanted CJ to... but CJ is in front of the cameras, CJ and the president are getting ready to talk to the press and Bram said... Bram said Josh is... and Donna's with him and I couldn't..." He's squeezing now, and Will is stronger than he looks. Sam is going to have bruises if he doesn't pull away, but the pressure is taking his mind off of the feeling in his stomach, the massive headache building up behind his eyes. "Someone had to tell you," Will says. "I didn't want you to... It's going to be on the news any minute."

As if on cue, there's an abrupt end to the _Seinfeld_ rerun that is on in the other room. A newscaster's voice is barely audible over the urgent, staccato music. Sam doesn't hear what's being said, mostly because he's too busy laughing.

"Oh god," Will says. He lets go of Sam's arms and Sam rocks backwards, still giggling. "Oh _god_ ," Will says again when he sees the red, hand-shaped marks left on Sam's arms. "I'm sorry, I didn't even... Sam, please, you need to stop..." This is shock or grief. Sam knows it. Sam knows that a perfectly timed news report isn't as funny as he's making it out to be. He knows that if he doesn't stop this soon he's going to start sobbing and he knows that the reason everything seems a little fuzzy is because he's looking at the world through the beginning of a sheen of tears.

Will's necktie is still brushing against the linoleum and his hands are on either side of Sam's knees and it takes a split second for Sam to discover that Will's grief does taste just like his own but with a sharp tang of scotch and a hint of desolation.

Will pries him away with shaking hands.

"You can't... _Sam_ ," he says. Sam wonders, absently, why Will keeps saying his name. Over and over and over... it's not like there's anyone else he could be talking to. "That was... I'm... I understand that you're upset," he says. "I understand that... I know that this is a shock and I know how much you loved him, and it's okay that you're... Don't worry about it."

The sheen of tears is gone, but the world still seems too bright, with rounded edges. The red skin on his forearms is tender but warm. Warmer than the air. Warmer than the floor that he's still sprawled on.

Will's mouth was warm too.

"I'm not..." Sam starts to say, but he's not sure what he's referring to. He is upset. He is shocked. He does love-- _did love_ Leo. But he's not... "I'm not worried," he says. "I'm not..." Will's still on the floor, crouched in front of him. He can still hear the newscaster talking in the other room. He thinks he can pick out Mallory's name from the mumble, from the jumble of words and ear-shattering music. He remembers a night a lifetime ago, Mallory and opera tickets and an invitation for dessert with Leo and his only daughter. He turned them down. That was stupid. That was...

"You kissed me before," Sam says to Will, his head suddenly turning, his eyes focusing firmly on Will's.

"I'm the White House Communications Director," he says. The hysteria is back, but this time it's backed by frustration rather than desperation.

"I was the Deputy Communications Director. That didn't stop you," Sam says. "I was running for congress and I came to California to tell you that. Kay Wilde left the room and you closed the door and you kissed me." Will won't look at him, won't keep eye contact. His eyes keep flicking away, random directions, unfocused and confused. Sam raises a hand and steadies Will's head, trying to steal back his gaze. "You kissed me before."

"You made it very clear," Will says, and there's a quiver in his voice, a tremor, like something is about to snap, "that you weren't interested. It was very clear, Sam. It was four years ago."

"You weren't wearing a tie," Sam murmurs, and his hand slips from Will's cheek to his neck. "Your top two buttons were open. I kept thinking about your neck for the rest of the day." Will pulls away almost comically, falling backwards onto the floor. For the first time, Sam notices that he's not wearing an overcoat, just his suit jacket. It's a nice suit. It looks good with the tie. It looks good against the linoleum.

"Sam, this isn't... you're in shock, Sam, and you're not thinking clearly." Will tries to get up, but he can't seem to manage it. Once he sees that Sam isn't sliding after him, he relaxes, propping himself up on his elbow, catching his breath. His hands are still shaking. Sam wants to hold them between his own until they stop.

"I was a candidate," Sam said. "I wanted to be president. I still want to be president. It will never happen, and I know that now, but Leo and the President were so... it was supposed to be me. It wasn't supposed to be Matt Santos. Me and Josh. I'd be the face and Josh would be the political skill and we were going to make this country... we were going to have our own chance to fix things. We used to talk about it. About hiring Toby and CJ, about keeping the team together... we didn't want anything to change. We never wanted anything to change; we wanted to spend the rest of our lives with the senior staff. We wanted to create a legacy."

Everything's gone blurry again. Sam has to swallow hard to keep talking, and even then the lump in his throat hasn't quite gone away. Will's hands have stopped shaking.

"I was a candidate," Sam repeats. "And you kissed me and all I could think was, 'If I kiss Will Bailey back, I'll never be president.' But I still went around all day thinking about your neck. Those buttons were undone and you looked like you hadn't slept in days and the line of your throat down between your collarbones... It was all I could think about." Will manages to get back onto his knees and he doesn't seem to mind that it moves him closer to Sam. He doesn't seem to mind when Sam hoists himself up as well and runs a finger from Will's chin to the knot of his Light Champagne necktie. He trembles, slightly, but he doesn't protest.

"I'm seeing someone," Will says. "A... a woman. And it's not... I mean, it's not..."

"It wasn't supposed to change," Sam says.

Will trails off.

"We were going to change the world." He looks at Will again, tries to catch his eyes. He moves a fraction of an inch forward and the light from the other room is suddenly glaring off of Will's glasses. He can't see Will's eyes anymore and he's not sure if that's good or bad. He's not sure if it matters. "I once thought I was in love with Leo's daughter. Mallory. Have you ever met her?" Will shakes his head. "She's great. She teaches school. She's smart and funny and I really thought I was in love with her. She deserved someone better anyway. Someone who wouldn't widow her the way Leo widowed his ex-wife. She used to... tease me..."

He frowns and slowly looks away from Will. Another memory... was it that same night? The same night as the dessert, as the Chinese opera? She told him he was just like her father. It was the biggest compliment he'd ever received.

"Sam," Will says again, and this time he's the one who reaches out, it's his hand on Sam's face, his fingertips trailing across Sam's cheek. Sam closes his eyes. The lump in his throat is unbearable. The newscast has switched to a press conference led by a voice he doesn't recognize. Will's breath is warm in the space between them.

Leo is no longer breathing.

There's a gasp that comes before the first tears fall. He's not sure if it's shock or pain or the erosion of the floodgate that's been holding this back from the moment Will appeared on his front stoop. He tries to concentrate on breathing evenly, on not hyperventilating, but all he can think about is the way Leo used to grin when he was happy with a speech, with a letter, with an argument. It was the greatest smile Sam had ever seen, _will_ ever see. He's sure of it.

Will timidly wraps his arms around Sam, pulls him close. The logical part of Sam's mind, the part that's been hiding along with the tears, knows that Will should get back to work. The White House needs him right now. CJ is going to need him and the President. He said he was seeing some woman. He has his own life that he needs to get back to.

The rest of Sam's mind doesn't care, because right now Will is holding him and it's been a long time since he's allowed himself to be held. He presses his face into one of Will's shoulders and puts a hand on the other. Will's breathing is steady. Will's prepared to be here for him. Will was the only one who thought to tell him before he heard it on the news. Will came all the way across town to tell him in person, and he doesn't seem like he's rushing to leave just yet. Will is warm, still warm, and Sam is grateful for it.

"We wanted to change the world," he says once he's able to breathe, to speak. He pulls back, and the inches between them feel like a chasm. Will looks at him, but looks away quickly, his fingers straying to his collar, loosening his tie, pulling it off. He places it on the floor, his eyes still downcast.

"My tie matches your floor tiles," Will murmurs quietly. Sam bites back a laugh.

"Light Champagne," he whispers.

"What?" Will looks up and over at him.

Sam opens his mouth to repeat the color. "I wanted to change the world," he says instead. "I wanted to be president." He pauses. "It was foolish. It was impossible. But even if it wasn't, I don't think I could do it without him." He glances down at his hands, his arms. He'll definitely have bruises in the morning, on his wrists, on his forearms. Bruises shaped like Will Bailey's hands. It makes his stomach flutter.

Will slides closer, takes Sam's hands between his own. "You're still young," he says when Sam looks up. "Sam, there's still time. You can still do it. He wouldn't want you to give up." Sam's not sure which one of them interlocks their fingers, but it feels right. It feels natural. He and Will stare at each other for a long moment. "You're young and smart and likable and determined. You can still be president."

Sam takes a deep breath, and then kisses Will anyway.


End file.
